The Double Life Of Mr. Alfred Burton eBook

Burton took up his hat and stole softly out of the
room. As quickly as he could, he made his way
to the offices of the Piccadilly Gazette and sought
his friend the sub-editor. The sub-editor greeted
him with a nod.

“Heard about your novel yet?” he inquired.

“I had it back this morning,” his caller
replied. “I have sent it away somewhere
else. I have written you a little study of ’The
Children of London.’ I hope you will like
it.”

The sub-editor nodded and glanced it through.
He laid it down by his side and for the first time
there seemed to be a shadow of hesitation in his tone.

“Don’t force yourself, Burton,”
he advised, looking curiously at his contributor.
“We will use this in a day or two. You can
apply at the cashier’s office for your cheque
when you like. But if you don’t mind my
saying so, there are little touches here, repetitions,
that might be improved, I think.”

Burton thanked him and went home with money in his
pocket. He undressed the boy, who sleepily demanded
a bath, put him to sleep in his own bed, and threw
himself into an easy-chair. It was late, but he
had not troubled to light a lamp. He sat for
hours looking out into the shadows. A new responsibility,
indeed, had come into life. He was powerless
to grapple with it. The grotesqueness of the situation
appalled him. How could he plan or dream like
other men when the measure of the child’s existence,
as of his own, could be counted by weeks? For
the first time since his emancipation he looked back
into the past without a shudder. If one had realized,
if one had only taken a little pains, would it not
have been possible to have escaped from the life of
bondage by less violent but more permanent means?
It was only the impulse which was lacking. He
sat dreaming there until he fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER XXII

DOUBTS

Mr. Bomford in his town clothes was a strikingly adequate
reflection of the fashion of the times. From
the tips of his patent boots, his neatly tied black
satin tie, his waistcoat with its immaculate white
slip, to his glossy silk hat, he was an entirely satisfactory
reproduction. The caretaker who admitted him
to Burton’s rooms sighed as she let him in.
He represented exactly her ideal of a gentleman.

“Mr. Burton and the little boy are both in the
sitting-room, sir,” she announced, opening the
door. “A gentleman to see you, sir.”

Burton looked up from his writing-table for a moment
somewhat vaguely. Mr. Bomford, who had withdrawn
his glove, held out his hand.

“I trust, Mr. Burton, that you have not entirely
forgotten me,” he said. “I had the
pleasure of dining with you a short time ago at Professor
Cowper’s. You will doubtless remember our
conversation?”

Burton welcomed his visitor civilly and motioned him
to a seat. He was conscious of feeling a little
disturbed. Mr. Bomford brought him once more
into touch with memories which were ever assailing
him by night and by day.